The little muslin moth,
Whose food is flame and cloth,
Flitting in rapid flight
From linen-chest to light,
In its intense desire
To be dissolved in fire,
Many manoeuvres made
Around by red lamp-shade
That so enchanted me —
To it I faithfully
Promise appropriate praise
In my verse, one of these days,
As soon as I can get
And put on paper down,
Some nimble epithet
And little noiseless noun.
From: Boundaries
